


Lost chances

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dusty offices, grey skies and outside pressures. Ignatius despairs of ever marrying Lucretia, and Antonin seeks escape from the influence of the newly-named Lord Voldemort. Where will their reluctant attraction lead them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tjwritter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Tjwritter).



> This is set in January to March 1945. Tom Riddle left school in 1945, and Antonin Dolohov was one of his friends from school. Lucretia Black is recorded as being born in 1925 (a year before Riddle), which means she would graduate in 1944 (a year before Riddle). I assume that Antonin and Ignatius did also.  
> Beta read by [](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/profile)[**tailoredshirt**](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/) 

The face was familiar, but it wasn't until he moved into the light that Ignatius realised why. Antonin Dolohov was ushered into his tiny office and shown a seat. The room was worn, shabby, and cramped. Thin winter sun trickled through the small window. Three people filled it to overflowing. "Prewett," intoned his boss, Fergus McDermott, "do you know young Dolohov, here?"

"We know each other from school, sir," answered Ignatius, wondering what on earth had bought him here. Last Ignatius had heard, Dolohov was going into an apprenticeship as a broomwright, so how he ended up in Experimental Charms was beyond him. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and hoped that his red hair was still neat. It was important to look organised and precise at all times.

"Good," said McDermott, "you show him the ropes. He'll be with us for three months or so doing some apprenticeship work that directly relates to charms. In fact, you're both expected in my office at 3p.m. sharp for your first assignment."

Silence fell in the small office as Dolohov squeezed into the tiny gap between his new desk and the bookcase. He placed his briefcase on the desk and surveyed the room critically. Ignatius wondered why the room seemed hardly any less full after McDermott's departure. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked Dolohov over carefully.

"It's nice to see you again, Dolohov," he said.

Dolohov inclined his head. "Prewett. I remember you did very well in the advanced charms class; I am not surprised to find you here."

"Thank you," said Ignatius, watching Dolohov open a smooth, new leather satchel and start to extract various objects, arranging them neatly on his desk where they gleamed with incongruous newness against the battered wood. "I thought you were going into a broomwright's apprenticeship?" he asked.

"I was," answered Dolohov. "A friend, however, felt that my talents could be better stretched in a variety of short apprenticeships before I settle to one speciality."

Ignatius wondered at the curt tone to Dolohov's voice, the snap with which he laid down his quill holder. He looked him over, in his crisp new robes, seeing little cuts still across his knuckles, as if he'd been carving wood only the day before. "Well, it will be nice to have someone to work with, I'm sure," said Ignatius. "Is there anything I can show you or help you with before we must meet Mr. McDermott in his office?"

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ignatius dropped the stack of files on his desk, raising clouds of dust. He coughed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

"What on earth are those, and why don't you banish that dust?" asked Dolohov, in his bored voice, looking up from a letter he was writing.

Ignatius wiped his hands carefully on his handkerchief. "These," he said, "are the files we need in order to research the precedence claim of Sophy Delany over the Immobilus Variant II charm." He shuddered at the dust covering his desk. "And we can't use magic on them, even to clean them, because they may have unstable charm fragments embedded in them."

"I knew that, of course, Prewett," replied Dolohov, returning to his letter.

Ignatius held on to his temper with an effort. Three weeks of Antonin Dolohov in his office was beginning to drive him mad. Everything, from his bored drawl to his perfectly styled black hair, seemed calculated to infuriate. His every gesture implied that he didn't really need to be working, that this was more like a hobby than a necessity. Ignatius's lips tightened, and he wondered, not for the first time, why Dolohov's friend had advised him to take a desk apprenticeship, when anyone could see that he would be happier doing something more practical. He knew that he would be happier if Dolohov was doing something more practical. Or, in fact, if Dolohov was doing anything at all that would get him out of his office and off somewhere else, where he wouldn't be so infuriatingly attractively there.

Ignatius gestured to the pile. "Do you have a preference about where to start?"

Dolohov looked up from his parchment once more. "No, Prewett. You might as well take the easy parts for yourself."

Biting his tongue on a sharp answer, Ignatius wondered whether he would have been better off joining his brother in the fight against Grindelwald. Dodging hexes across half of Eastern Europe seemed like a better option than biting his tongue over his own desk. He transferred the top half of the pile to the waiting tray on Dolohov's desk, and then settled down in his chair to read through the first of his files.

Ignatius concentrated hard, successfully banishing the image of Dolohov from his mind. He was roused at last by a bang from the other desk. Startled, he looked up to see Dolohov slowly spinning in circles, body rigid, as he levitated towards the roof. Cursing under his breath, Ignatius spent a lively few minutes getting Dolohov down from the ceiling and relaxed again into his chair.

"Be quiet," he snapped, as Dolohov opened his mouth. "I told you not to use magic." He prodded the offending parchment very gingerly with the tip of his finger, and swiftly dismantled what was left of the charm, recording it to parchment in case it proved important later on. Then he turned to Dolohov, who was slumped in his chair, looking ruffled, considerably startled and perhaps just a little admiring. Ignatius refused to think about how good he looked rumpled. "Thank your stars you didn't hit the ceiling," he snapped.

Turning back to his desk, he was startled to hear Dolohov's voice behind him, in a considerably friendlier tone than he had been expecting. "Maybe Lucretia does know what she's about, marrying you," he said. Ignatius whirled around, to see Dolohov straighten his cuffs and brush off the last few specks of dust.

"How do you know about that?" he asked, frowning.

Dolohov's brows rose. "Great Aunt Chimere," he answered.

"Oh, yes, I forgot that she is your mother's cousin."

"I would give much to join you in that state," agreed Dolohov. He shook out the hem of his robes and pulled the de-charmed parchment across his desk gingerly. Ignatius sat back in his chair and picked up his parchment.

"Last time I dined with the Blacks, she was holding you up as the model of pureblood behaviour," said Ignatius, seeing how far this new civility would go.

"If you dined with the Blacks, your pureblood backbone is in a stronger state than mine."

Ignatius smiled, a little ruefully. "It was not the most congenial of dinners, I will admit. Great Aunt Chimere compared me to you most unfavourably throughout the meal, except for the final course, when she discussed whether the House Elf responsible for the pastry cases should be beheaded."

"That sounds like her. When dining with us, the nicest thing she said about you was that you knew your duty to your name and your blood. I cannot outdo you there."

"Has she not ruthlessly made a match for you, yet?" Ignatius asked, careful to let only idle curiosity colour his voice.

"I have more pressing duties," answered Dolohov curtly, reaching for another parchment and clearly signalling an end to the conversation.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The booth at the back of The Three Broomsticks was hardly a spot conducive to serious talk, packed as it was with crowds of students. Antonin pushed his way through the giggling knots. Tom Riddle looked up as he approached; smiling that slight, confident smile that was like a hook to snare you. Antonin slid into the seat on the opposite side. Other friends were keeping the booth private. Antonin took in the presence of Avery, leaning against a stool and chatting with Rosier and young Hawkes. The circle was slowly spreading.

Riddle's smile was open, friendly, full of pleasure at seeing an old friend. Antonin smiled back, warming under the influence of that smile. "How is the modified apprenticeship working out? Eight weeks you have been there, is that right?" he asked.

"Well enough, my Lord."

"Come, friend, why so formal?" Antonin looked up to see Riddle's amused smile glint just a little with satisfaction. "Tell me about it, and what you have learned so far."

Antonin outlined his work so far, slowly warming under Riddle's encouraging smile. He talked of Prewett's skill with arithmantic analysis, and his practical knowledge of charm variants, but steered well clear of any description of how competent his fingers looked wrapped round a wand. "The charms work itself is exacting, as we attempt to reconstruct the original research conditions," he finished.

Riddle looked pleased. "You have been very busy," he commented. "Good work." Antonin glowed internally at the praise. He could no longer remember why he had been reluctant to visit, to see his young master, to listen to his voice outline the vision to which they all could aspire.

"This Prewett, of whom you speak. Tell me more," commanded Riddle gently. "Is he the Prewett from Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, that's him," replied Antonin. His discomfort returned full force, feeling vaguely like he was betraying Prewett by talking of him. "He's betrothed to Lucretia Black," he said.

"Oh, really?" Antonin twitched at the vaguely covetous tone to Riddle's voice. His gaze strayed back over to Avery and Rosier bracketing Hawkes. Perhaps the Lord Voldemort wished for a larger court. Antonin wished he were not the means to gain it, and felt vaguely protective of Prewett, with his precise glasses and neat red hair. "He sounds interesting," said Riddle, contemplatively. Antonin's smile was awakard. Then Riddle's attention was distracted, and they spent the rest of his visit on incidental matters.

It was only later, as Antonin walked up the driveway to his family home from the apparition point, that he realised that it was more of an interview than a conversation. He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck and shivered in the cool afternoon air.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ignatius tapped his cold cup of tea impatiently, sending wisps of steam into the chill air. He drank a mouthful of the scalding liquid and set the cup down again, barely noticing the burn in his mouth. Between the report and the fleeting images of Dolohov that assailed him, he hardly had the concentration to notice anything else. Picking up his quill, he added a few more lines to the report, and read back through what he had written. He chewed the end of the quill anxiously.

The door banged open and Dolohov strode in carrying an enormous box. He was swathed in cloak and scarf and his cheeks were flushed pink. Watching covertly as Dolohov stripped his cloak off and hung it by the door, Ignatius took in his broad shoulders and tall frame.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Dolohov, smiling what appeared to be a genuine smile. Ignatius had one more moment of frozen contemplation before snapping out of it and knocking over his teacup. Brown stains blossomed over his report, and he flushed to the roots of his hair. Prodding his wand at them savagely, he focused resolutely on the parchment, and then on cleaning his desk. When he looked up, he wanted his momentary frission of awareness to be erased from his memory.

Dolohov was behind his desk, slowly poring through the box. The frisson was still there, damn it. Ignatius breathed slowly through his mouth, concentrating again on his report. He had to get it finished. When the report was gone, so would be his awareness of Dolohov.

He read his last sentence four times before finally giving in and looking up. Dolohov had extracted a large Muggle object and was scanning plans for an experimental charm that went with it. His hair was escaping from its usual neat confinement and Ignatius bit back a curse.

Dolohov looked up. "Fascinating," he said. "When you've finished that report, you have to come and have a look at this."

Ignatius's curiousity was piqued in spite of himself. He looked back at his report, then back, longingly, at the new puzzle. Dolohov watched him silently. Looking up, Ignatius caught a speculative look on his face and blushed scarlet.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Frowning pensively over the sheaf of parchments dredged up from some dusty storeroom, Antonin considered his situation. He risked a sideways glance at Prewett, similarly frowning over his own sheaf of parchment. The man had scarcely said three consecutive words to him for over a week. He knew next to nothing about Prewett's views on blood, and less about how he might acquire the information. Antonin was not a fool. He knew Riddle's – it was absurd to think of him as Lord Voldemort at such a distance – interest in Prewett was more than casual.

He glanced up again, taking in the flickering shadows playing over Prewett's neat red hair. The office was quiet, deserted for the evening, and the candles drew their office close and intimate against the lengthening shadows. Antonin looked up again to see Prewett glancing at him. Prewett looked away quickly, a slight flush staining his cheekbones. Antonin turned back to his parchments.

Scanning to the bottom of the scroll he held, he felt a momentary satisfaction. "I've found the source charm," he announced.

"And the arithmantic analysis?" asked Prewett, looking up from his sheaf.

"Yes, although there's a bit here that I'm unsure about," he replied, handing over the parchment in question and summoning the chalkboard closer. Prewett scanned the text, and muttered to himself. Arcane figures bloomed over the board, white chalk dust scattering in little flurries to join the rest of the dust in the room. Antonin was impressed despite himself. Prewett was a master at this sort of analysis.

Prewett jumped up from his desk, eyes gleaming, and strode over to the board. "The abstract was right," he announced. "It's a variant on Imperius, designed to mimic the effects of Veritaserum. I wonder why it never got past the abstract stage?"

Antonin did his best to hide his excitement. He strolled over to the board and traced one of the symbols. "Verum coactum," he murmured softly to the board, wondering why Prewett would not speak to him, bar over work.

The room suddenly seemed very distant and hazy, and he turned to find Prewett frozen next to him, looking up at him with wide eyes. Why had he never noticed what blue eyes the man had, despite noticing how very red his hair was, and how milky pale his skin? He realised, with an inward groan, that the charm worked off intent. He also realised that he could feel a wash of unfamiliar emotions through him. Locking eyes with Prewett, he licked his lips. He felt a blend of fear, of surprise – and what was that sudden flicker of sensation across his nerves?

"Why won't you talk to me?" he asked. That strange fire prickled over him again, and he looked closely at Prewett. Tongue tracing his own lips, the other man struggled not to speak, but the spell overwhelmed him. The fire thundered faster through Antonin's veins, and he was surprised only in the intellectual remnants of his brain as Prewett pressed against him.

"I want you," he said, in a husky whisper. "I can feel you too, you know." One hand came up to flutter around the nape of Antonin's neck. Antonin could not suppress his response. Was this why he'd been resisting getting to know Prewett – no, Ignatius - better? Bodies barely touching, Ignatius leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "The desire's not just mine."

Antonin raised his hands, vaguely thinking of pushing him away, but they settled instead on his waist, feeling the heat and subtle muscle under the plain robes. Ignatius's breath ghosted past his ear, making him shiver. Nudging forwards, brushing his lips over the other man's jawline, he relished the feeling of stubble rasping over his skin.

Ignatius tilted up Antonin's jaw with his other hand, shifting slightly to bring their lips together. They moved over each other in the most delicate of touches, open mouthed, hesitant, feeling the tumble of each other's emotions fall through uncertainty, through fear, and into aching desire. Ignatius caught Antonin close with a stifled whimper, welding their bodies together from shoulder to knee and deepening the kiss.

Antonin responded by wrapping both arms around Ignatius, hauling him as close as possible and imprinting every inch of sensitised flesh with the feel of Ignatius's body. Slipping his thigh between Ignatius's legs felt like a natural move, and he bucked forward instinctively as one of Ignatius's hands squeezed his arse roughly through his robes.

Antonin had never felt fire like this holding sway over his body. No degree of fascination with Riddle could compare to the need, the burning ache, he held for Ignatius. Those clever hands were roaming over his back, messing his hair, sending little tendrils of flame out to connect to the main conflagration.

Suddenly, it stopped. Antonin felt the charm snap clean, and no longer felt any compulsion. His arms slackened slightly around Ignatius, and his lips gentled, but he did not let go. The desire thrumming gently through him was still real, still his. He didn't want to let go, not now that he'd found this.

The air left Antonin's lungs with a startled huff as Ignatius pushed him away. Staggering backwards, Antonin sat heavily on the side of his desk and watched as Ignatius stumbled back, eyes wide and mouth open with shock. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," he babbled. "I never meant-" He broke off to press both hands over his mouth as if he was going to be sick. "I didn't mean to take advantage," he gasped out.

Antonin watched him turn pale, leaping forward to grab him and thrust him into a chair, forcing his head between his knees. "Don't you dare faint," he growled. "I didn't feel you taking advantage of me, and the desire seemed to work both ways from my viewpoint."

Ignatius brushed Antonin's hand aside and bolted from his chair, virtually running down the corridor. Antonin looked after him, the door wide to the dim hallway, the little haven of candlelight in the office. He sank into the chair and very tentatively touched his lips.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Ignatius stared at his reflection in the mirror for so long that the enchanted object gave up offering him advice and lapsed into silence. His face looked no different: his hair just as red, his eyes just as blue. How could his beliefs be turned upside down, but no sign of it show on his face? Surely his lips should be swollen, perhaps even black with guilt? With anxiety? It had only been an hour since he tore himself from the office, from the man inside it, but it seemed like years of wearing, doleful worry had passed.

The mirror sighed, but he ignored it. The clock chimed ominously, calling him to keep his appointment with Lucretia. Supper at the Blacks was always deadly boring, but he smoothed his hair one last time, sent a last, guiltily searching stare over his face, and turned for the Floo.

Lucretia never looked pleased to see him. He thought he could sometimes see a slight lifting of the frown she wore around her family, but her smiles were like rare breaks of pale winter sun, barely warming the ground. Sitting next to her, he accepted a cup of tea and inquired politely after her health. He did not doubt that she was stronger than him – anyone who could live here had to be. He shuddered inwardly at the studied unfriendliness of the room.

Lucretia inclined her head towards him, gifting him with one of those slight smiles that usually sent his heart racing. "Do you still wish to get married?" he blurted, voice pitched quietly so none of the rest of the family could hear.

She looked at him, dark eyes intent, a little sad. "I wish for it more than anything," she replied. "I wish we may get married as soon as possible."

Ignatius nodded, taking her hand in his and squeezing it slightly. She squeezed back, but drew her hand away almost immediately, in the face of a pointed look from her mother. Ignatius knew they were hoping she would change her mind and marry someone else, someone richer, someone with more conservative views.

"Should I ask to speak to your father again?" he continued, voice still low.

"It would be no use. He has decided we must wait, and who knows when his caprice shall allow us to be together."

"I admit, I would rather we had tea in our own little house, with cheerful candles and bright curtains pulled tight against the dark than continue to drink it here."

She smiled again, a faint curve of her lips, and Ignatius felt that fugitive stir in his stomach, as he wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips. Another face swam before his eyes, lips firmer and face more chiselled. He shook his head to banish the image.

"I would also prefer that. I could hand you your cup, with just the right amount of milk, and comment in a very housewifely way on the distressing shortage of milk in the rations."

Ignatius laughed softly. "You are so refreshing, my dear. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The dark face flickered inside his mind's eye, but he refused to acknowledge it again.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

He clung to his resolve all the way to his office the next day. It had lasted through a restless night, as his dreams pursued him with rogue charms and demented house elves bearing jugs of milk. His resolve faltered only when Antonin – he could no longer call him Dolohov in the privacy of his mind – came in, setting down his briefcase and capturing his small flock of memos.

Ignatius risked a quick look upwards to see the dark circles under Antonin's eyes, a sombre set to his jaw. Dropping his eyes to his parchment, Ignatius tried to focus on the words suddenly swimming in front of his eyes.

The day crept past, the low shuffle of parchment and the squeak of quills counterpointed by the occasional rattle of a chair. Each time Antonin's chair scraped along the floor, Ignatius looked up, half hoping that he was going to break this deathly silence. Each time, he was both disappointed and relieved when Antonin avoided his eyes. Dipping his quill in the ink again, Ignatius sighed, though he could scarcely name for himself why he was disappointed.

As dusk crept through the small window, Ignatius tidied his desk, piling his parchments into neat stacks and ordering his quills. He cast one last look at the other desk, longing to stride over and kiss Antonin. Or maybe hex him. He turned for the door instead.

His hand was on the doorknob when a quick charm shut and locked it. Chair legs screamed, and Ignatius was pinned against the wall, face flat against the peeling paper. He could feel his cock hardening rapidly and flushed red with shame. Antonin's voice came to his ears in a raspy whisper. "You don't get to just walk away from this," he said.

Ignatius braced both hands against the wall and pushed back, succeeding in getting free long enough to turn around before Antonin slammed up against him again and pressed their bodies together. Ignatius closed his eyes, shamed beyond belief as his erection dug into Antonin's thigh. A husky chuckle told him that his condition had not gone unnoticed.

"It's not just me," growled Antonin, voice rough and uneven. "You want me, too." Trembling fingers trailed over the bare skin of Ignatius's neck, followed closely by the hot press of lips. Ignatius whimpered, hands rising instinctively to Antonin's shoulders. He did want this. He wanted it so much. His eyes fluttered open to see Antonin raking him with a searching gaze. "Tell me," urged Antonin.

"I do," admitted Ignatius, voice wrung out against his will. "I want you so much. You're all I can think about. All I can dream about."

His voice broke off as Antonin tilted his chin and devoured him in a kiss. Ignatius fell helplessly into it, mouth opening and fingers clutching desperately into Antonin's shoulders. He felt Antonin's fingers grip hard into his jaw before sliding down over neck and throat. He whimpered into the kiss, one of his hands moving up from Antonin's shoulder to rake through his dark hair. The fire of attraction was burning bright inside him, now that Antonin had sparked it. Running his other hand down Antonin's back, Ignatius firmly cupped his arse and dragged him closer. Having got this far, he was eager to taste as much as he could of the experience.

Feeling as if he was drowning, Ignatius tugged Antonin even closer, skin absurdly sensitive even under his robes. He spread his legs apart, urging Antonin to slide his thigh between them, pressing their cocks together. Antonin broke the kiss and groaned into the side of his neck. Ignatius placed shaky kisses on Antonin's jaw and neck.

The clothing between them was too much. Tugging at Antonin's robes, Ignatius pulled them up from the back and transferred his hands to Antonin's strong, bare thighs as soon as he could. Groaning again, Antonin pulled at the fastenings of his robe, tugging them open to gape down the front, before doing the same to Ignatius. The first slow brush of skin on skin was shocking, and they both paused, foreheads tipped together, bodies in contact from neck to thigh. Ignatius let out a shuddering sigh, tentatively tracing his hand up to rest on Antonin's hard cock.

Ignatius moved his hand slowly, rubbing over the length, marvelling at the feeling of another cock under his fingers. Antonin moaned softly, jerking slightly and brushing their lips together. Ignatius brushed back, letting his mouth initiate the softest, gentlest of kisses, as his fingers slowly circled and stroked over Antonin's cock. Sobbing on an indrawn breath, Antonin moved his hand down to mirror Ignatius's. The touch of his long fingers over his cock nearly sent Ignatius over the edge. His mouth hardened, turning the kiss hungry, and in a heartbeat they were desperate again.

Antonin rocked his hips, brushing the tips of their cocks together as their hands rose and fell on them. Ignatius could scarcely tell where he ended and Antonin began. Body burning, he felt Antonin's body shudder and shake and felt the warm splash of come over his fingers. He thrust forward into Antonin's slackened hold once more then exploded into his climax after him.

They returned slowly to their senses, slumped against the wall, robes in disarray, bellies splashed with come and desire sated. Ignatius rubbed his hand in circles over Antonin's shoulder, marvelling at the happiness he felt. Antonin lifted his head and smiled faintly, and Ignatius smiled in return.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

These were halcyon days, decided Antonin, stretched on Ignatius's little bed in his tiny London flat, even if the weather defied that description. The winter sky through the tiny window was heavy with rain, and the panes rattled faintly in the gusting breeze. Fortunately, the bed was cosy and warm, the patchwork quilt comfortingly heavy, and the candles flickered yellow in their holders. Looking up as the door opened, Antonin smiled as Ignatius carried a laden tray into the room and levitated it over the bed. Smile widening, he watched eagerly as Ignatius stripped and slid naked under the sheets.

Ten glorious days of stolen kisses in the office, hurried evening meetings, and finally, a luxurious afternoon in bed. Antonin felt like his life had only started two weeks ago. Before that, he'd merely existed. His commitment to Riddle wavered like one of the candles in a draught, and his preoccupation with blood and status and fame seemed worthless next to the delight of Ignatius's smile and the heat of their bodies together. Antonin sipped his tea and felt Ignatius's other hand slide over his thigh under the sheets.

"Tea first," Antonin said. "You've exhausted me, and I need some recovery time." Ignatius quirked his lip and took a sip of his own tea.

"No harm in making my intentions plain," he replied. A lone finger skimmed higher, tracing small circles over smooth skin. Antonin felt himself hardening, and took a rather larger gulp of his tea. He couldn't wait to get those hands and lips back on his skin.

Ignatius arched an eyebrow as Antonin downed his tea and put the cup back on the tray. He kept hold of his cup and sipped delicately. Antonin smirked. He could think of a few ways to get the cup put away and more pleasant activities started. Sliding down the bed, he closed his lips over one rosy nipple and sucked. His fingers splayed over Ignatius's freckled stomach and stroked the soft skin. A gasp sounded from somewhere above him, and he was suddenly drenched in hot tea. Yelping, he jumped backwards, glaring reproachfully at Ignatius, who was helpless with laughter.

Ignatius gulped his last few chuckles down and reached for his wand. A few charms, and Antonin and the bed were clean and dry. He dropped the wand again and pulled Antonin closer by the shoulders, dragging him into a warm kiss. Antonin relaxed against him, sliding their bare skin together and letting one thigh slip between Ignatius's.

Their kiss was hot, needy, both losing themselves in the feeling of being connected. Antonin had never felt this before. His adolescent experimentations had been characterised by shame and manipulation – here, as everywhere, Riddle had sought to control his court. For the first time, he felt free and honest. He suspected Ignatius didn't even have earlier fumblings as a guide. It felt like they were learning everything together, bright and shiny and clean.

Letting himself go, hands roaming over that pale skin, Antonin gasped for breath at the touch of hot lips pressing kisses over his neck and across his shoulders. He wanted to give Ignatius something he'd never given anyone before, not even Riddle. "I want you to fuck me," he said, voice soft, almost pleading. Ignatius's eyes flicked up, startled, pupils dilated. He swallowed. Antonin caught Ignatius's chin in his hand, cupping the jaw and sliding his thumb over his cheek. "Please," he whispered. "I want you."

"I don't know what to do," admitted Ignatius, eyes still wide. His thumb was easing soft circles over Antonin's heart, and Antonin felt himself melting.

"I'll help you," he said. He caught Ignatius's hand and sucked one long, bony finger into his mouth. Gasping, Ignatius's eyes fluttered closed, opening again only when Antonin slid his finger free. "Use your finger to, um, prepare me," he said awkwardly.

Blushing scarlet, Ignatius probed between Antonin's arse cheeks, finding the little puckered opening and brushing over it. Antonin moaned gently at even this slight contact, and the look in Ignatius's eyes turned hungry. He pushed and teased at it gently.

"I'm scared I'm going to hurt you," he confessed. "I don't see how it's going to work."

"Oil," gasped Antonin, "and don't stop. It feels wonderful." Ignatius drew away to reach for his wand and Antonin reached his own hand down, easing just the tip of one finger in. Ignatius watched greedily, even as he conjured a small bottle and pried off the top. Antonin loved the look of heated want consuming Ignatius's face. He loved causing that look. Removing his hand, he tipped back his head and gasped, watching through hooded eyes, as Ignatius slid one finger into him in a smooth gentle slide.

"I can't believe you're letting me do this," gasped Ignatius, eyes flickering between the sight of his finger disappearing into Antonin's body and the raw lust on Antonin's face.

"I trust you," whispered Antonin. "More, give me more." He writhed on the sheets, pushing against the two fingers, coated in more oil, that Ignatius slid into him. One of those fingers brushed against something wonderful inside him, and he moaned. "That's fantastic, keep going," he groaned. He kept his eyes on Ignatius's face, watching as Ignatius applied more oil, adding a third finger, twisting them and stretching him.

"It's… you're amazing," said Ignatius, eyes wide and wondering and burning hotly.

"Now," said Antonin, "inside me now."

Ignatius swallowed hard, removing his fingers and slicking his cock with oil. Antonin gasped as he moved up between his legs, pressing his thighs wide apart and pushing forward. As the wide, blunt head eased in, Antonin breathed deeply and reached back to grasp the headboard. It felt like heaven, even the slight burn of pain. As he looked up at Ignatius's face, mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed shut, obviously fighting for control, he felt a surge of emotion through him. He pushed down, encouraging Ignatius to crawl gently, inch by inch, inside him, feeling his awareness of the man crawling under his skin to match.

Finally, Ignatius was right inside him. Antonin tugged him closer, enjoying a minute of still closeness. He panted softly, face buried in Ignatius's neck. "I have to move," gasped Ignatius. "It's so good."

They moved together, trying to keep their pace slow and gentle. Antonin's cock was trapped between their bellies, aching for release as Ignatius nudged past that unexpectedly magical place inside him with every thrust. He grasped the headboard hard, feeling Ignatius's hands under his arse, his hot kisses pressed along Antonin's throat.

"I'm not going to last," warned Ignatius. Antonin wrapped his legs high around Ignatius's waist and tilted his hips up to meet each thrust. With a feral growl, Ignatius grabbed Antonin's hips and thrust hard, driving into him fiercely. Antonin moaned at the ferocity of the assault, loving the feeling of Ignatius on top of him. He felt his arse quiver, all his sensation gathering in the little spot. He groaned, body clenching in waves as the pleasure rushed through him and his come splashed over their stomachs.

"Love you," groaned Ignatius, following him over the edge. "Oh, Merlin, I love you."

Antonin let their hearts slow, rubbing Ignatius's back and ignoring the burn in his arse. As Ignatius relaxed fully and slipped out of his body, he felt a small pang of loss. "I love you too," he whispered.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

It was hard to sit down the next day on the comfortable padded stool at the back of the Three Broomsticks, but harder to meet Tom Riddle's cold eyes. Antonin took in young Hawkes, standing guard again with Avery as Nott chatted with another student, whom Antonin didn't recognise. It seemed that Riddle was gaining adherents. He had obviously expected Antonin to present Ignatius to him today, a sacrificial lamb to his ambitions. Riddle's eyes seemed to slither over him, divining far more of his thoughts than he was really comfortable with. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have ignored this summons.

"It seems that your time at Experimental Charms has not been without value," Riddle said at last, "Yet I do not see young Prewett here with you today."

"No, my Lord." Antonin swallowed hard. "He visits at the Black Family Manor today."

Riddle raised one eyebrow. "Are you so bereft of persuasive talents, my friend?" Antonin looked down at the table. He had never so much as mentioned Riddle to Ignatius.

"Come, Antonin," said Riddle, after a long moment of silence, "what has friendship with Prewett that friendship with me does not? I offer you a way forward, a world to strive for."

Antonin remained silent, looking down at his hands on the tabletop and remembering how Ignatius's skin felt under them, how Ignatius's eyes were warm as they roamed over him. He looked up briefly. Riddle's face was a fine blend of avarice and ambition. "He offers me nothing but himself, my Lord," he said at last, not sure if the words were brave or foolish.

"And that contents your ambition? Our goals are not for the fainthearted, Dolohov. Are you man enough for the task we have set ourselves?" Riddle's voice was calm and implacable. Antonin winced, but remained silent.

Riddle sighed softly. "Think well," he said, at last. "I would hate to find myself displeased with you." He tapped one fingertip on the table. "I shall expect to hear from you soon."

Antonin muttered something and made swift his escape. That last sentence had chilled him to the bone. He did not doubt, reviewing some of the incidents that had followed someone incurring Riddle's displeasure, that the threat was meant. He was sure vengeance would find him, if he betrayed his sworn allegiance now.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Antonin twined his hands desperately in Ignatius's bright hair, kissing him hard and pressing so close it seemed like the other man was trying to get into his skin. Ignatius soothed gentle fingers over Antonin's spine, leaning back against the wall in his hallway, shoulders against the faded wallpaper.

"What's wrong?" he asked, finally, when Antonin showed no signs of letting him go.

"Come away with me," replied Antonin, lifting his head and staring into Ignatius's face.

"What?" exclaimed Ignatius, flabbergasted at the desperate edge to his self-controlled lover's voice.

"I mean it. If we want to be together, we'll have to leave. Run away." Antonin's eyes were a little wild, desperate, and Ignatius did not understand.

"But my job," objected Ignatius, "and my family. I have commitments here."

"We'll have to start again somewhere else. Start fresh, away from all these things."

"I don't understand. Why do you want to leave?" said Ignatius, face radiating confusion.

"Does it matter?" replied Antonin.

"Yes," said Ignatius. "Of course it matters. You're really upset."

"I just want to go away, just the two of us."

"Antonin, what is this about?" Ignatius soothed his palms over Antonin's shoulders in long, slow circles. "Calm down."

"We have to leave. No family, no friends, just each other. Please, Ignatius, I'm begging you, come with me. Please."

Ignatius dropped his hands from Antonin's back. "It's impossible," he said, flatly.

"No," urged Antonin, "it's the only way for us to be together. I want that. Don't you?"

"Yes," said Ignatius, slowly, "I do. But." He bit his lip. He'd had no idea that things had come to this pass between them, thinking vaguely of a friendship, of secret lovers that they kept separate from the rest of their lives. Antonin stepped back from him in the suddenly cold hallway. "Arcturus Black has given permission. Lucretia and I marry next month."

"What?" gasped Antonin, mouth dropping open and wild look draining into shock.

"You knew I was promised to her."

"You said you loved me."

"I do!" protested Ignatius, hands stretched out beseechingly, mutely asking Antonin to understand. "But I can't run away with you. What would people think?"

"That you meant it when you said you loved me," replied Antonin, face setting hard and distant. He pulled away completely, leaving Ignatius feeling cold and exposed.

"I do love you," said Ignatius quietly. "But I can't run away with you."

"That's your final word?"

"Antonin, please! Don't do this to us," begged Ignatius, grasping Antonin by the wrist and trying to pull him into his arms. He was terrified. He had no idea what was going on for Antonin, no idea how things had come to this. His one thought was to keep Antonin by his side.

"There is no us," said Antonin, voice cold and hard. "I was deluding myself." He detached himself and walked to the door.

"No, don't go. Please, can't we talk about this?" Ignatius knew his face was as pale as Antonin's.

Antonin looked over his shoulder, eyes cold, though Ignatius could see the pain there. "Are you willing to leave your commitments and come with me?" he asked.

"Lucretia! My family! You can't ask this of me."

"Either you love me and will leave with me, or you do not and will not. There is no halfway."

"I do love you, but I cannot leave. Surely you see how impossible this is?"

"Then there is no talking."

"I love you," said Ignatius, helplessly.

Antonin gave a mirthless laugh. Chilled, Ignatius watched as the cold, hard demeanour slipped into place, and the bold, vital appearance of his lover was concealed. "I love you," Antonin replied. "But, in the end, that doesn't seem to matter very much, does it?"

The door snicked shut behind him, closing tight. Ignatius stared at it for long, cold moments before dropping to the floor, curling in on himself and letting the sobs rip his heart apart.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The owl pecked Antonin gently on the wrist as he finished attaching the parchment. He stroked his forefinger over the soft feathers, taking her to the window and letting her out into the dawn-streaked sky. All tears were gone, now, in the face of a new day.

"You'll find him at Hogwarts, as usual," said Antonin. The owl soared into the sky, and Antonin turned back to his room and opened the book his Lord had sent him to study.


End file.
